


The Selkie

by HiddenKitty



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: 19th Century, Alternate Universe, Canada, F/F, Fur-trappers, Gender Roles, Homophobia, Selkies, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-20 10:51:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9487970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenKitty/pseuds/HiddenKitty
Summary: A fem!bagginshield AU in which Thorin is an 1860's Canadian fur-trapper, and Bilbo is a selkie.For the wonderfulMcManatea, with belated birthday wishes.  It's niche, but I'm hoping you'll like it...Endless thanks toMithfor the beta, without which several chunks of this would be nonsense.  I have tried to research, but I've never been to Canada or done any sort of fishing, ice or otherwise, so I hope any remaining errors can be forgiven.Further thanks torutofor the illustration.  I took advantage of her Fandom Friday doodles to request it and it's glorious, thank you!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mcmanatea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcmanatea/gifts).



  


\--

Sitting out on the ice on her little stool, Thorin waits patiently for a bite. There are half a dozen halibut in the canvas sack beside her already, enough for everyone to eat fresh for a few days, and spare to dry for when the snows come in properly. It’s been a good day, but the sun won’t go down for a while yet and she may as well catch while she can.

It’s so bright out here on the frozen lake you could go snow-blind, the sun a savage white lamp in a sky so blue it ought not to be real. To one side of her rise snow-covered mountains, and a few hundred yards to the other the ice she is sitting on fractures and thins back into dark, gently lapping water. She lets her eyes fall shut and her mind wanders in the red silence behind her eyelids, every sensation seemingly brought into sharp focus by the crisp air and the stillness around her. This bay sits at the mouth of a river that spreads out rapidly into the open water of the ocean, and in the distance she can hear the honking of seals playing in the water further out. The noise carries so clearly it’s as if they’re just beside her.

Even this early in the season the weather is bitter and the ice where Thorin sits is several inches thick, though her layers of fur, wool and leather should keep her from freezing. Only the tip of a beaky nose protrudes from her clothing, making her sniff constantly. She does need to breathe. 

Thorin is fair-skinned and light-eyed for a Métis, but the high proud bones of her face still give her lineage away to sharp eyes. Her grandmother was full-blooded Cree, and it’s her nose that Thorin inherited, the family resemblance clear in any mirror if Thorin ever bothered to look. A long time ago, back East, it was Grandmother who took her out to the woods and taught her how to lay traps, how to walk silently through the trees, how to ice-fish in the winter, and how to shoot. Thorin remembers the sound of the old woman’s laughter the first time a bullet actually hit something, not the tin can Thorin had been aiming for but a rabbit scampering behind it, a fat buck with good eating on its bones.

They brought it home together. “You’re marked with good luck, little one,” said Grandmother. 

Grandmother had been a wise woman, but she didn’t know everything. Thorin sighs. The cold is beginning to creep in, and she rolls her shoulders against stiffness and stretches her neck to each side. She looks up at the tall mountains piercing the sky and the thick dark woods that cover them, and back down to the ice of the lake, and finds she is not alone.

There’s a seal only about 20 feet away from her, a fat brown beast with dark eyes that sits still and silent. The rest of its colony are far away, yet this lone creature has managed to creep up on Thorin almost silently, and Thorin has no idea why it would. It seems almost to be watching her, blinking occasionally and then huffing, as if Thorin is not as interesting as it had hoped.

Seals can be curious creatures, but it’s unusual for them to approach a human. This one looks nearly full-grown and probably weighs as nearly as much as Thorin herself. They’re a long way from shore, and Thorin isn’t keen on sharing the ice with the creature if it comes much closer, or brings any friends.

“Hey, scram,” she calls gently. 

The seal’s response is comically startled, as if it didn’t know Thorin could speak. It rears up and honks loudly, then turns, scrabbling for purchase on the ice with its long flippers and desperately hunching and stretching its body to get away quickly. Once it has some momentum behind it, the beast goes barrelling back to its colony with surprising swiftness. Thorin grins to herself and returns to her thoughts.

The family had lived high, out East, in a stone-built house big enough for all of them, until Grandfather had gotten himself in debt to a British moneylender and they had to flee before it all came crashing down around them. Then they’d followed the curve of the bay Westward, burying family members along the way until at last they reached a place where no-one had heard the name of Samuel Maugh, and they were safe enough. 

By then, they numbered only seven: Thorin’s sister Dís, her young sons, their mother, and the cousins, Balin and Dwalin. Between them the derelict wood cabins they moved into have long since been fixed up. Thorin’s mother is buried out on the edge of their camp, up against the tall stockade fence, in a spot that catches the summer sun and has a nice view of the whole camp.

They get by well enough. In Spring and Autumn Thorin and Dwalin leave the family behind and go trapping, in Summer Thorin and Balin trade the pelts, and then in Winter they’re snowed in until the Spring comes around again.

Most trappers work in larger groups, but most trappers are men. Thorin is not, though few folk who have met her realise it. Her features are strong, her build broad, and her voice roughened from tobacco and lack of use. She wears trousers and stout boots, and under the checked flannel of her shirt is a corset Dís has altered to flatten down the cups and let out the waist. It doesn’t restrict Thorin’s movement and keeps her supported enough to be comfortable, but it also flattens down what little chest she has. Thorin has no issue with that. Most folk seem to assume she is Dís’s husband, which keeps all of them somewhat safer. From experience she knows, too, that when she goes to trade pelts, the price is better when she doesn’t correct traders who call her Mister.

Through her thoughts, she hears a faint sound, like light footsteps skipping across the ice. She opens her eyes and it takes a moment to adjust to the light again, but she can’t see anything. Maybe she was falling asleep, which would be dangerous. She’s been out here for several hours, after all.

Thorin shifts a little on her stool and eyes the skin tent waiting for her on the shoreline of the lake. The light is beginning to turn golden as the sun sinks, turning the old greyish hides a warm russet. Having moved, Thorin realises she needs to pee, and she isn’t about to squat down out here on the broad open ice. There’s almost certainly no-one to see her for miles around, but nonetheless, she can’t countenance it. She may dress like a man, but she hasn’t turned into one.

It’s probably time to be done for the day. Packing up the rod and bait doesn’t take long, and Thorin hefts her rifle over her shoulder and the big sack of fish with it. The ice under her boots is slippery, but she has good iron grips on that crunch into it with each footfall, the sound louder than it should be as it echoes over the lake. She lifts a hand to shade her eyes. The weather is so good she could stay here another day, hanging this catch on poles to dry before she goes back. She’s still considering it when she gets back to her tent, grunting in relief as she drops the sack. Maybe not. It’s a full day’s walk back to the cabin and she probably couldn’t carry much more than this, although dried fish is lighter.

A few seals have gathered on the shore about half a mile from Thorin’s tent, sunning themselves in the last of the waning light, tucked close together like fat brown sausages in a pan. One or two look up and watch her as she walks into the woods.

She won’t go far, she just wants to find somewhere sheltered and a decent distance from her tent. There’s a fallen pine tree that’s just the ticket, and Thorin tugs at her many layers, holding them out of the way and attempting to ignore the chilled air like a slap against her exposed ass. It’s chilly enough that steam rises as she pees.

As she’s pulling her braces back up and adjusting her pants she spots a movement from the corner of her eye. Thorin turns, startled, and curses herself for leaving the gun back at the tent. She creeps forward, crouching back down behind the fallen trunk, hoping whatever’s out there hasn’t been alerted to her presence by the smell of piss. 

A person is darting between the trees like some kind of pale ghost, and it takes Thorin a moment to realise it’s a woman, and she’s naked, without a stitch on her body. There are cropped, copper-coloured curls of hair on her head and at the soft crux of her thighs, and she’s small and sturdy and plump as a piglet.

The sight is bewitching enough to make Thorin take a step forward. A twig cracks under her foot like a rifle-shot. The woman freezes in place for just a second, then flees. 

“Wait!” calls Thorin, chasing after her. Thorin has no idea who the woman is or why she’s naked, but she can’t survive out here with nothing on. “Wait, let me help you!”

She stumbles on a root, falling hands-first onto the hard icy ground, and picks herself up, cursing. By the time she emerges from the trees her quarry has vanished completely. Thorin’s own booted steps have churned the snow enough to disguise any footprints around her camp, but the tent is empty and there’s nowhere else the woman could have gone, unless she ran straight past it and out onto the ice. If she had doubled back into the trees Thorin would’ve heard, and even in the absence of tracks it seems unlikely she would have headed towards the seals on the far shore, who are now honking and flapping and generally making a commotion that looks far from safe. Thorin shakes her head, trying to make sense of what she’s seen. Maybe the long day has addled her wits.

She walks a short ways towards the seals, who begin to bray more loudly, some rearing up as if preparing to attack if she comes closer, while some flee towards the water.

“Ah, shut up,” mutters Thorin, turning back. 

There’s something dark lying on the shore not far away and Thorin goes to investigate, in case it holds some clue. It’s a sealskin. Perhaps that’s what upset the seals, but it doesn’t explain anything about the disappearing naked woman.

It would be a waste to just leave it there, although sealskin doesn’t fetch much. It’s odd that there is only one. Thorin has seen the seal-clubbers killing, how they wade into a sea of bodies smashing skulls to either side of them with careless haste, less concerned with a quick death than a good tally. It had not seemed honourable work to Thorin, although she supposes the animals she traps end up just as dead.

Whoever shucked this seal was a master of their work, however. She notes how every piece of the skin is intact, the long line opening it from chin to tail straight and precise. The face in particular is unusually perfect, with no stretching or distortion from when it was pulled off the skull. It unnerves Thorin a little, and she slings it over her shoulder by the tail, where she can carry the thing without feeling watched.

It’s time to light a fire, and eat. 

\--

The beans she left to soak in water that morning are ready to cook, and Thorin sets them to boil. They’re too old, still gritty in her mouth despite soaking and cooking. It doesn’t matter to Thorin, who only needs them to be fuel.

At home they’ll be eating dinner around now, too. Thorin thinks of her sister and the boys with a smile. Dís is a good cook as well as a good seamstress, and she’s bound to work wonders with all this fish. 

When Thorin’s bowl is empty she takes it outside to wipe it with a handful of snow, then refills it with dry beans and water to soak for breakfast tomorrow morning. There are stars out overhead, the sky so clear it’s like a whole bag of diamonds got spilled. If she sets off at first light she’ll easily be home by suppertime. 

Thorin crawls back into the tent, dragging her arms out from her heavy fur coat and draping it over her shoulders instead. She tugs on the tie of her thick braid to let her hair down, scratching her scalp with thick fingers, then lifting a lock to her face and breathing in. It smells like home, and safety.

Thorin is proud of her hair. She wears it long still, since plenty of Trapper men do likewise, and ties it back in a single braid or ponytail when she is out of the house. When she returns home she will heat a bucket of clean water and pour it over her head in cupfuls, the hot water gently washing out any dirt or fish-stink. 

Then she will sit at Dís’s feet before the fire and let her sister brush it out across her lap as it dries, with a few drips of sage-scented oil on the horsehair brush. Thorin’s fancy hair oil is the only indulgence she allows herself, and Dís has insisted she must not give it up. It’s a ritual between them, something secure and soothing, the gentle tug of the brush against Thorin’s head as she answers her sister’s questions about her trip. Thorin isn’t yet sure whether she’ll tell Dís about the strange naked wood-sprite she thought she saw today.

She feeds the fire with twigs that hiss and crackle, dead enough to burn but still frost-damp, and watches sparks twist in the smoke, flying upwards and out through the open flap at the tent’s apex. Outside she can hear the quiet creaking of the trees and the faint calls of owls. Soon it’ll be time to let the fire burn down to embers and climb into her sleeping-sack. Ice fishing makes her a strange sort of tired, more exhausted in the mind than the body, and the vision from earlier hasn’t helped. There’s a pipe and tobacco in her pack, and Thorin fumbles for them in the half-dark of the tent. A smoke will help settle her.

There’s a crunching sound on the shingle outside, swift and regular and growing louder as if something is approaching, too loud to be vermin but too light, she thinks, for a bear. Thorin begins to slowly, silently stand up, reaching for her rifle and halfway to her feet when the flap of her tent is pulled up and the naked woman appears in the firelight. Her dark eyes are wide with fear, and her pale skin is blotched with red and purple from the cold.

The gun forgotten, Thorin strides forward on instinct and catches her before she can stumble into the fire. Her heavy coat is thrown around the stranger at once, and Thorin pulls her close, grasping the little swollen hands between her own dry, calloused ones. They feel like ice, and worse, the flesh is rubbery and numb. The woman struggles to reach out towards the fire but Thorin has heard of trappers who went from frostbite to burns, unable to feel how close they were to the flames. 

“Careful,” she says, and the woman flinches at the gruffness of her voice.

“Please, I’m so cold,” the woman pleads, the sound sweetly musical. She is shuddering uncontrollably, almost a convulsion, and it makes her voice shake, the words slightly slurred.

“I know,” says Thorin, and curses herself as the stranger flinches again. She tries to speak more gently, the way she would to Kili. “It’s all right. My name is Thorin. Can you tell me yours, Miss?”

“I - oh,” says the woman, turning her gaze from the fire to Thorin. She is pretty, her round face dotted with large freckles, and she would be more so without that worrying bluish tint to her lips. “I’m… Bilbo.”

Her accent is hard to place, though Thorin would guess she is of Dutch or German descent. Perhaps British. Certainly not an insubstantial woodsprite, in any case, since she is very definitely solid against Thorin’s body, and she can feel the chill of Bilbo’s flesh even through the wool flannel of her shirt. 

“It’s all right,” says Thorin again. “You’re safe with me, Bilbo, it’s all right.”

Bilbo sways in her arms. “I’ve lost my skin,” she mumbles, or at least that’s what it sounds like. Her eyelids have begun to droop and she slumps heavily against Thorin, who curses, recognising the danger signs. If Bilbo passes out and her temperature keeps dropping the damage caused may be irreversible, but there’s only one way Thorin knows to warm someone all over with as little risk as possible.

The sheepskin sack that Thorin sleeps in is barely big enough for her alone, but that’s probably all to the good. She manhandles Bilbo inside it as the woman begins to slip in and out of consciousness, throwing the beaver coat over the top and stripping off her own clothes to pile over it too, as many layers as she can. Even in the small tent with a fire going, it’s deeply unpleasant to expose her bare skin to the frigid air, and by the time Thorin is naked she has no compunction whatsoever about squeezing her way in next to Bilbo, who is curled up like a hibernating squirrel. Thorin wraps her arms tightly around the stranger, tucking the warmth of her hands into the wispy fuzz under Bilbo’s armpits. Reminding herself that this may save the woman’s life, she pushes her knee between Bilbo’s, urging the plump thighs apart and pressing the top of her leg up against the soft curls of Bilbo’s groin where the skin will be thinnest. 

“Bilbo, don’t fall asleep yet. You need to stay awake a little longer,” says Thorin firmly. She isn’t sure whether that’s necessary, but it seems a good idea. 

Despite the weight of cloth above them and the tightly confined space, Bilbo is so chilled that Thorin begins to feel colder herself. The ground beneath the tent is frozen too, and Thorin can feel it creeping up into her bones. She rolls slowly onto her back with the woman in her arms, rocking them back and forth as far as she can without brushing up against the little fire, in hopes the movement will heat things faster. Bilbo is heavy, but the weight feels right somehow, as if it’s something Thorin has been missing without knowing it. 

“I’m hungry,” mumbles Bilbo after a while, through teeth that still chatter.

“You must wait,” says Thorin. “You need to get warm first.”

“But I’m so cold,” moans Bilbo, pressing her face into Thorin’s neck. She isn’t slurring her words now. “I’m so cold, I shall never get warm. And then I’ll starve. It’s too cruel.” 

Thorin suppresses a smile at the melodrama of Bilbo’s words. It would hardly be appropriate to laugh, although the worst of the danger seems past already. Bilbo’s shivering has already subsided into occasional full-body shudders, and her breathing is steadier. It is possible Thorin has saved this woman’s life, and the relief of that thought leaves her giddy.

There may be more to it than that, however. Never in her life has Thorin been so close to another person, and it feels good, as if it’s healing something in Thorin, too. Bilbo’s body is snug against hers, and she is so much smaller than Thorin, fitting perfectly into her arms.

“I won’t let you starve,” says Thorin, nestling her cheek against Bilbo’s cropped, curly hair. “Where are your people?”

“I don’t have... people,” grumbles Bilbo, her voice muffled against Thorin’s skin. “Let me sleep, if you won’t let me eat.”

“Just stay awake a little longer.”

“You’re mean,” says Bilbo. It’s no good, Thorin can’t help chuckling at that. 

Bilbo makes a huffing sound in answer, and her breath feels warm, which must be a good sign. She wriggles and lets out a fluttering sigh, shifting her arms down to set her small hands under Thorin’s shoulders and press their bodies closer together, so that the stiffened peaks of her cold nipples poke against Thorin’s chest. Bilbo is still chilled, but less so than before. Suddenly Thorin is aware that place where her thigh is pressed up between Bilbo’s is definitely warmer now, much more so than the rest of the woman. It occurs to Thorin that the hour is late, and forcing Bilbo to stay awake is probably unnecessary at this point.

“Sleep if you want to,” says Thorin, although she isn’t even sure if Bilbo is still awake as she says it.

Before long Bilbo is snoring like a sawmill, and Thorin grins to herself. Dís and the boys have often complained about her own snoring, but it seems Bilbo is unlikely to be disturbed by it. 

In the low light she can’t see Bilbo’s face, but she gazes at the brown freckles on Bilbo’s little round shoulders and wonders what her story is, and where she has come from. She falls asleep stil wondering.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pain! Pain for Kelly! Consider yourselves warned, although it's only mild pain really.
> 
> Endless thanks AGAIN to [Mith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liasangria/pseuds/mithrilbikini/works) for the beta. Her patience and scrutiny are much appreciated.
> 
> A Disclaimer: I have tried to research, but I've never been to Canada or done any sort of fishing, ice or otherwise, so I hope any remaining errors can be forgiven.

Thorin awakes more peacefully than she can ever remember before. In sleep the two of them have shifted a little, both lying on their sides now, Bilbo tucked up cosily against Thorin as if nature had designed them to fit together. She is still asleep, although not snoring any more. Her cropped, curly hair tickles against Thorin’s chin, and Thorin breathes in its scent, salty and astringent as if Bilbo has been swimming. That would explain the lack of clothes and how cold she was, although it seems crazy to imagine anyone skinny-dipping in weather like this and surviving.

Nonetheless, Bilbo is warm now, blissfully so, and her bare flesh is soft and ample, filling Thorin’s arms. 

Thorin knows it is rude to simply lie here and stare, and she could be caught in the act at any moment. A pale gold shaft of morning light slants into the tent, illuminating Bilbo’s sleeping face without mercy. She isn’t beautiful like a fine lady, not even like Thorin’s sister, who is generally accounted a handsome woman. Bilbo’s features should be plain, but they are well proportioned, comfortable-looking, with a little crease between her brows that warns of a certain sharpness, and the overall effect is captivating. The shape of her mouth is something particularly lovely. 

As Thorin watches, Bilbo’s nose wrinkles and twitches briefly as if she has an itch. There’s no reason to find the gesture so enchanting, but Thorin’s hands flex unbidden as she resists the urge to reach up and tickle in the hope of seeing it again. Instead, she gingerly shifts her leg from between Bilbo’s, sharply aware that the top of her thigh feels damp. They have not moved much in the night, and with the close confines and plentiful covers, Thorin can feel sweat prickling on her back. That’s probably all it is.

Next she attempts to extract the arm trapped underneath Bilbo’s waist. It’s not easy, since the woman’s significant weight has deadened the limb, and Thorin grits her teeth against the tingling return of sensation as she pulls it back.

“Oh, no no no,” murmurs Bilbo. She squirms unsettlingly in the tight confines of the sack until she has turned around and the curves of her generous ass now press up against the crook of Thorin’s hips. Blindly, Bilbo reaches for Thorin’s hand, pulling it up to clutch it against her breast, where Thorin’s traitorous fingertips find that Bilbo’s nipples are definitely no longer cold, but nonetheless stiffen at her touch. Bilbo hums with pleasure, and wriggles back against Thorin. Thorin breathes steadily through her nose and considers what she ought to do next.

The question becomes immediately moot, as the figure beside her transforms from sleep-soft and pliant to sudden rigidity.

“Oh,” says Bilbo again, but in a very different tone. Evidently she is awake now. She releases Thorin’s hand as if it has scalded her, and covers her face with both her own. “Oh, no.”

“Bilbo?” asks Thorin, and hopes her voice does not sound too strangled. There’s no reply, and she casts about for what to say next. “If you are hungry, I shall fix breakfast.”

It’s no easy feat, removing herself from the sleeping-sack, and Bilbo doesn’t help much by shrinking away from every accidental touch. Irritated in a way she can’t quite explain, Thorin reaches for her pants, stepping straight into them with her back to Bilbo. It feels like she’s being watched, and as she pulls her shirt over her head she takes the opportunity to glance sideways. Sure enough Bilbo is gawking at her, wide-eyed. 

Thorin has been dressed, and undressed, in front of others before now. The cabin she shares with Dís and the boys is too small for privacy, but they are family, and they do not stare. Thorin feels her face grow hot under Bilbo’s gaze.

“Are you very strong?” asks Bilbo suddenly, as Thorin pushes the tent’s flap aside to go and piss again.

“Strong enough,” says Thorin, after a pause, and leaves, squinting against the sun as she heads for the trees. She isn’t sure what the question really means, or what the wondering tone of Bilbo’s voice was supposed to convey. It sounded the way Fili had when he watched Thorin splitting kindling and wanted to try himself, but couldn’t pull the hatchet out of the wood. From Fili it had been a compliment, but Thorin knows that amongst adults, women aren’t generally complimented for their muscles. 

When she returns to the tent, Bilbo is still there, although she has crawled out of the sleeping-sack and wrapped herself in the coat once again. Her long, elegant feet poke out from under it, freckled and smooth. They don’t look like the feet of someone who walks much, and her little hands pulling the lapels closed about her are soft as well. What is so fancy a lady doing with no clothes, and her hair cut short? Thorin hardly knows what question to ask first.

She kneels to stir the ashes of the fire, feeding it back to life until she can set the beans to boil again. Bilbo watches her in silence.

“What are they?” she asks, and the question is startling in the close, warm silence of the tent.

Thorin frowns. It seems impossible anyone could not know. “Beans?” she offers, feeling foolish. 

“Where do they come from?” asks Bilbo, leaning forward a little way to peer into the pot. “Are they good?”

“They... grow,” says Thorin, feeling her temper flicker again. “They are better than starving, I guess.”

“Mmm, I’m sure they’re delicious,” says Bilbo doubtfully, watching the scum rise to the surface as the water begins to bubble.

Thorin pokes at them with her fork, scowling. Bilbo is hardly obliged to eat them, and Thorin refuses to care.

She sits back while the beans cook, reaching over to throw open the flap of the tent. With two bodies and a fire inside it all night, they could stand some fresh air right now. A sharp-edged triangle of light cuts through the fug, and the cold rushes in along with it. 

Bilbo darts suddenly forward, diving across the small space and scrabbling for something near Thorin’s feet. It’s the sealskin, and she jumps to her feet clutching it to her chest like a talisman. Her movement disturbs the too-large coat, and for a moment Thorin glimpses the swell of Bilbo’s stomach and below it, dark under the coat’s shadow, the nest of curls that sits atop full, dimpled thighs. She swallows hard and tries not to look. 

“My skin,” sighs Bilbo happily, rubbing her face against the sealskin, before a flash of suspicion crosses her face. “Did you steal it?”

Thorin shakes her head, affronted. “I did not know it was yours.”

“No, how could you,” agrees Bilbo, nodding vigorously. The tent is small enough that she knocks her head against its skins. “So I may have it back? You won’t keep it from me? You’ll let me take it?”

Her eyes are sharp, watching Thorin closely as if there is more to the question than there seems. Thorin merely nods. She has no reason to keep the thing. 

Whooping with joy, Bilbo throws off the coat and runs, naked again, out of the tent and into the snow, racing down towards the water before Thorin can stop her.

“Bilbo, what are you doing?” she calls out, stumbling after her into a morning so bright that for a moment the world is indistinct, too luminous for Thorin to make out shapes. The sun is reflecting off the ice of the lake and the sky is white-pale, so that you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

Bilbo halts, turning to Thorin with bright delighted eyes, still with a tight hold of the sealskin and naked as a peeled prawn, despite her breath freezing into clouds before her. Now her eyes have adjusted Thorin can see all of her, almost overwhelmed by the glorious full curves of her arms and legs, the soft folds at her waist as she twists, how her small breasts jiggle with the movement. Her skin is rosy and freckled in the sunshine, her hair lit with gold. It makes Thorin think of strawberries drenched in thick cream and brown sugar, a treat she hasn’t tasted since she was a child.

“Where are my manners?” Bilbo exclaims, and leans down to examine the shingle at her feet. She finds a small shell and folds it close in her fist, whispering to it, then scampers back to Thorin’s side and presses it into her hand. “For you, in thanks. Or I’d be no better than a burglar, hmm?” 

Thorin stares in confusion at the shell, and Bilbo is off again, pattering over the disturbed snow and loose grey stone. Her bare feet slip as the frosted shore turns into the ice of the lake, and as she runs she pulls the sealskin over her head. Then she seems to fall, or maybe throw herself forward.

What lands is not a woman but a spotted brown seal, scooting across the ice. It moves with surprising speed for something so ungainly, shrinking into the distance rapidly. Thorin is still struggling to understand what she is seeing when the seal plunges suddenly downwards, slipping between chunks of broken ice into the water, and vanishes.

For a long time Thorin stands open mouthed, unheeding of the cold. The seal does not reappear, and nor does Bilbo.

\--

Thorin is home earlier than she expected, her distracted mind propelling her feet forwards automatically, and she reaches the camp’s fence while the sun is still in the sky, just barely. There’s smoke rising from the chimneys of both cabins and a smell of cooking on the air. Grasper and Keeper are already barking as she walks into the compound, bounding joyously towards her.

“Down,” snarls Dwalin, emerging from the cabin he shares with his brother, the one nearer to the gate, and both dogs skid immediately to a halt and sit, panting, looking between Thorin and their master as he strides forward. Thorin reaches to fondle their soft ears, and they whine softly, digging their noses into her hand. Grasper can smell the fish she’s carrying and manages to scoot herself very slightly towards the bag without standing up.

“No,” says Thorin, smiling, and at once the dog obeys, looking up with guilty eyes.

“Greedy,” snorts Dwalin, and rubs her head with his knuckles, but he can’t hide the fondness in his voice. He lays a hand on Thorin’s shoulder. “Good trip?”

“Good catch,” says Thorin, unwilling to say more just yet. She hefts the bag over to Dwalin, who takes it easily. He hasn’t just carried it for a full day through woods and hills. Thorin’s back is aching, and she needs a rest.

“We’ll deal with these, you go see the boys,” says Dwalin, chuckling. 

The instruction is hardly necessary, since even as he speaks Fili and Kili come tumbling out of their cabin, running towards their aunt with yells of joy, and the remainder of the evening is taken up with food, questions that go largely unanswered, and more stories of what Thorin has missed than ought to be possible after just four days away.

It’s good to be back, to sing her nephews to sleep again, and return to the comfort of normal life. She strokes Kili’s hair away from his face and he scowls in his sleep, snuggling up to his brother. In the doorway behind her stands Dís, already in her nightgown, and smiling at the scene.

“Yours is by the fire,” she says, and Thorin goes to change as quickly as she can. In a perfect world she’d bathe first, but there’s no chance of that. Heating enough water in this weather is impossible, it goes cold before you can get in. She re-braids her hair quickly to tidy it up, and returns to the shared bedroom to climb into bed beside her sister. It’s been a long couple of days, and though the mattress is old and sagging, it’s softer than sleeping on the ground. By rights, Thorin should fall asleep instantly. 

Instead she finds her mind racing. She can’t help thinking about the previous night, and the woman she held. Bilbo isn’t anything like Dís, but what if Thorin rolls over in her sleep, dreaming of Bilbo? That doesn’t bear thinking about. Yet she can’t stop the memories of Bilbo under her hands, how good it had felt to lie pressing skin against skin. They rise unbidden in her mind and refuse to be ignored. She tosses and turns for an hour at least, unable to get comfortable in the small shared bed.

Beside her Dís sighs, loud and emphatic, and rolls over to glare at her in the dark.

“You know, I’m going to go and fix myself a cup of cordial, and drink it nice and slow, and by the time I get back in this bed you better have taken care of what’s bothering you, okay?” she whispers, and then slips out from the bed, throwing a shawl across her shoulders.

Thorin is dumbfounded, watching her sister in her ghostly pale nightgown creep across the floor, cracking open the door to their main room. She can just make out Dís winking at her as she disappears through it, whispering, “Just don’t wake the boys!”

Surely Dís cannot had guessed what is keeping Thorin awake. She is a clever woman, certainly, but that seems impossible.

Thorin glances over at the boys, who seem deep in dreamland. She’s seen them fake sleep before and knows they’re both terrible actors. 

Taking a deep breath, Thorin hikes up her nightgown and slips a hand between her legs, startled to find how wet she is. She screws her eyes shut, swallowing hard and begins to work her fingers quickly. She knows how to get this business over with, though it’s rare that she ever gets to do it in a bed.

The images she summons are disjointed, just fragments that are nearly all from that morning. She thinks of Bilbo wriggling against her, the quiet pleased sound of her voice, the shout of joy and her smile when she found the sealskin, the way her body moved when she ran naked out onto the ice, and tries to imagine kissing her way across that body in a warm bed like this one. It’s a tame enough fantasy, but it works, and Thorin stifles a low cry into her pillow just in time. 

She’s never been carried away enough to make noises before, and she blinks in surprise at herself as she feels her body finally relax. There’s no time to think what that may mean, however, since almost as soon as she rolls over, fighting off a rising sense of shame at herself, she is asleep. 

\--

The next morning Dís’s mood is gratingly cheerful, as she bustles about making coffee. Thorin has slept late, as she often does after a trip, and Dís is frying a fish for her breakfast having already fed the boys and shooed them outside. She sets Thorin’s plate on the table and sits down to watch her sister eat with a wickedly curious expression.

“So who’s the lucky fella?” she asks.

Thorin pauses, fork mid-way to her mouth, and feels abruptly sick. She sets the cutlery down. “No-one.”

“You don’t fool me, Thorin. I know that kind of distraction, and I know what does it to a girl. There’s a man, I’m certain of it.”

“No,” says Thorin, and sees Dís’s eyes narrow, as if she’s hurt that Thorin will not tell her. “Not… a man.” 

Hurt becomes confusion, and then shock. Dís’s hand flies to her mouth to stifle a soft cry, and she pushes back her chair, standing up. She clears the plates from the table blindly, as if she needs to busy her hands.

“You mean a woman? Does she know you… you’re...?” Dís leaves the sentence hanging. “Oh, my Lord, what the hell happened?”

“I do not know,” admits Thorin. The fish smells good, and she needs to eat. She lifts the fork again, and busies herself with breakfast.

Dís makes a loud, angry snort and grabs the kettle, turning back to the kitchen workstand and pouring out the remaining hot water into the washing-up bowl, a job that is usually Thorin’s. 

“Well that’s just dandy,” she mutters to herself, grating in the soap. “Ain’t that just grand.”

It’s good fish, as expected, though Thorin can barely taste it now. Once her meal is finished she stands, and silently fetches her coat and her hatchet. They have plenty of firewood already, but more isn’t going to hurt. She leaves the cabin and goes out around back, dodging a snowball from Kili on the way.

“Not today, boys,” she says. Kili seems about to protest, but his brother puts out an arm to stop him, older and a little more perceptive. They’re good boys.

It’s another clear day, though heavy clouds are beginning to bank up in the distance and it’s unlikely to last. Thorin sets her first chunk of wood onto the old, scarred splitting stump and steadies it. The hatchet falls straight and true, the wood splintering to either side with a satisfying crack. She takes up the smaller shard and repeats the task. It’s simple, mindless work.

Her family is her first priority, and always has been, so much so that Thorin can’t recall anything she’s ever wanted that wasn’t to take care of them. This longing for Bilbo is wholly unfamiliar. Perhaps she’s bewitched. It’s clear enough that Bilbo is some sort of magic person, most likely a Selkie. Thorin knows very little about such things, and is reluctant to ask Balin. She thinks of the little shell in her pocket and resists the urge to pull it out and look at it again. 

Already there’s a pile of kindling large enough that she could stop now. Thorin pauses, lifting the thick braid from the back of her neck and mopping the sweat gathering beneath it. Dís appears around the corner, carrying two steaming mugs of coffee and looking troubled.

“Is it my fault?” she blurts, as soon as Thorin has a mouthful and cannot answer. “Because I let people think you’re my husband? It can stop, Thorin. I’ve got dresses I could let out, you’d fit them. You can be a woman again.”

Thorin gulps, scalding her throat, and regards Dís in shock. “I am a woman,” she says, uncomprehending.

“But… all this!” says Dís. “Getting marrying thoughts about some whore. It’s not right.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” growls Thorin. 

She turns her back to Dís, and swings the hatchet with venom. From a corner of her eye she pretends not to see Fili and Kili pause in their snowman building to watch as their mother stomps away.

It occurs to Thorin that Fili is old enough to go trapping with Dwalin now. The only reason they’ve held off taking him is that Kili was too young, and the brothers come as a matched set. You can never have one without the other. Still, Kili will be turning ten soon, and he’s tall, growing like a weed. Perhaps it’s time. With three sets of hands on the task and one less mouth to feed, the family might even do better.

There’s a pile of kindling growing beside her that’s thin as matchsticks. If she chops it down any further they won’t have any logs big enough to keep the stove going through the nights. Sighing, Thorin straightens up and stares at the sky as she feels the muscles in her back protest. Days are short at this end of the year, and the sun is dropping already. That’s the trouble with Winter. It’s hard, and tedious, and there’s nothing to be done but endure. She isn’t going anywhere, and she knows it.

Thorin skipped lunch after her late breakfast, and is ravenous. Something inside the cabin smells good, and she can’t put it off any longer.

She doesn’t speak as she enters, which is hardly unusual, and the conversation at dinner is only mildly awkward, although Kili is still pestering Thorin for more stories and Dís comes close to snapping at him the third time she asks him to stop. 

After dinner Thorin washes up, as usual, and helps put the boys to bed, singing them to sleep the same as the night before, the same as she has so many times. It’s once she comes back out to where Dís is sitting by the stove that things become strange again. Her sister is fussing with some piece of sewing, tutting over it theatrically until she throws her hands in the air and announces she’s exhausted and going to bed early, snatching up her nightgown from where it hangs warming on the stovepipe and leaving Thorin alone in the room. It’s plain to see where her sons get their lack of acting talent from.

Thorin reaches into her pocket, fingers caressing the little shell for a moment before she pulls out the thing she’s after. It’s a chunk of wood, just a little piece she came across that morning, the knot where a branch grew out from the trunk. There’s an interesting curve to it. She has no great skill in whittling, but she needs something to fill the time until she can face going to bed, so she takes up her pocket-knife and starts to slowly, carefully pare away at the wood.

It’s some hours later when the inner door creaks and Dís emerges, holding a lit candle and wrapped in a heavy blanket over her nightgown. She creeps back to the chair opposite Thorin’s and sits down without a word.

Thorin continues to carve. Her candle has burned down and the stove glows low enough that it’s hard to see quite what she’s doing, but she rubs the wood with her thumb to find the edges that still need shaving down, staring blindly at her hands. 

“What’s that you’re making?” asks Dís, very quietly.

Thorin holds it up. “Seal,” she says. It’s not bad, at least in this light. The natural curve makes it look as if the seal is about to plunge into the water, its tail flicked up to propel it forward.

“Cute,” says Dís, smiling, and sighs. “I was thinking. I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

With a low grunt, Thorin turns the carving over in her hands again. She feels oddly guilty, knowing she won’t explain its significance to her sister now.

“I shouldn’t have said any of what I did, I mean. You’re my sister, I know that. You’ve always taken care of us. We couldn’t have made it this far without you, especially now Vili’s gone.” 

Vili was Dís’s husband. He’d caught a chill a few months before they settled here that had killed him far faster than seemed right for a young, strong man. 

Thorin looked up to find Dís watching her, her face drawn with grief. “I miss him.”

“I know,” said Thorin, watching her sister press the heel of her hand against one eye and take a deep breath.

“I don’t know if you do, Thorin. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sweet on anyone, your whole life. But you are now, ain’t you? That’s what I came out here to say to you. I don’t pretend to understand it, but I can’t see a reason why you shouldn’t get to feel love, if you can. It’s hard when you lose it. I still wouldn’t have given up those four years with Vili for all the world. I’m sorry for judging you, Thorin.”

The tears are coming faster now, and Thorin stands, pulling her sister up into her arms to hold her as she weeps. “Shh, Dís,” she says, “It’s all right. Do not worry about me. I love you.”

“Will you go back to her again?” asks Dís, sniffling through her tears. “If you want to, you should.”

“I don’t know,” says Thorin honestly. “I guess I could.”

\--

The following day a snowstorm hits, and Winter has truly begun.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please note the raised rating! :3
> 
> And huge thanks to the wonderful [Mith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liasangria/pseuds/mithrilbikini/works) for the beta on this chapter too - it is enormously appreciated. 
> 
> A Disclaimer: I have tried to research, but I've never been to Canada or done any sort of fishing, ice or otherwise, so I hope any remaining errors can be forgiven.

It’s a relatively mild Winter in the end, but it feels like the longest one of Thorin’s life. 

Balin notices something is up the moment he sees her, and it takes less than a week for him to discover the whole story. After he and his brother come over for dinner, with the plates cleared away, the lamps turned down and the boys in bed, he produces a precious, almost full bottle of real Scottish whisky. It’s a country mile better than anything Thorin’s tasted in years, a hot savage burn in her mouth and a long honeyed finish that warms her through to her fingertips. She is well aware of her cousin’s intentions when he starts to pour. That doesn’t mean she can avoid them. 

It’s good whisky.

“A selkie, no less!” exclaims Balin a hour or so later, stroking his white beard thoughtfully when the whole sorry tale has finally been spilled. Thorin glares hard at the empty glass in her hand, already regretting the confession.

Dwalin snorts. “Horseshit,” he says, loud enough that Dís glances towards the bedroom in case the boys waken. “Horseshit,” repeats Dwalin more quietly. “Sounds more like you dreamt the whole thing.”

“I don’t think so, brother,” says Balin, the only one of them who still looks sober. He leans forward to refill everyone’s drink. “Grandfather Farin knew a MacCodrum boy back in Scotland, the son of a selkie maid with hands half-way to flippers. They’re real enough. Though, if you liked her so much, I’m afraid you should have kept the skin. It’s the only way to bind them to a human.”

Thorin recalls the pure joy of Bilbo’s expression when she held the lost skin to her face, and cannot regret it. “It belonged to her,” she says, draining her glass and holding it back out. There’s no point being cautious now.

“You’ve a noble heart,” says Balin sorrowfully, tipping the bottle up again. “I only hope you don’t break it. I warn you, Thorin, even if you do go back there, you’re unlikely to find her again. And perhaps it’s for the best. I never heard of a happy Selkie marriage.”

The conversation moves on, and glasses are refilled a few times more, so that by the time Thorin shuts the door on her cousins at last, the whisky bottle sits empty on the table. She helps her giggling sister into bed and then climbs in herself, staring out into the inky blackness of the small room. Dís is passed out in an instant but Thorin lies awake, Balin’s words whirling around her head.

They’re impossible to forget, although Thorin stubbornly curtails any efforts to revisit the subject, the next morning or on any other occasion, and eventually her family stop trying. The Winter grinds on until almost all conversation fades away into grunts and sighs. 

The boys lose interest in snowballs and snowmen. The sky overhead sits grey and close, as if a old woollen blanket has been thrown over the world, blocking out the sun forever. Indoors the air grows fetid, until the windows must be thrown open to refresh the place, and then it is merely cold until it grows musty again. Every few days Thorin and Dwalin dig out the paths, or go out with rifles in the faint hope of game, but mostly there is nothing to be done but sit indoors by the stove, not eating or moving too much, like hibernating bears. Thorin carves so many little wooden seals that her family give up remarking upon it. Most, like the first, she deems too misshapen, and they go into the stove when finished.

All the while, she thinks of Bilbo, and of what Balin told her about Selkies. She may never see Bilbo again. She may never make Bilbo happy. She may have only fallen under some cruel enchantment, that will torment her to the end of her days.

She begins to plan her trip back to the bay in mid-January, nonetheless. The snow may not be melting, but the blizzards of December are more like flurries now. If she is lucky, she’ll be able to manage a few days at the shore.

From a blanket box in her cousin’s cabin, she pulls out pants and a shirt that have been waiting for Fili to grow into them (although it looks as if Kili may beat him to it), and a green knit sweater Dís made and then washed in water that was too hot. The pants are short ones with button suspenders, she realises, in a mustard-coloured twill, and she remembers her brother Frerin wearing them when they were growing up. He’s been dead a long time now.

It doesn’t matter if they’re short, she decides, since it’s only that she wants to offer Bilbo something to wear if she can be found again. It seems a necessary politeness to provide something to keep a guest warm, and besides, Thorin can’t envisage managing much of a conversation if Bilbo stays naked. On impulse, Thorin packs her own nightgown the morning she leaves, just in case Bilbo wants to wear something more feminine. Dís has only three dresses, so she can’t take one of those.

Last of all, she packs a carved wooden seal. It’s the best one she’s made yet, sanded to perfect smoothness and polished with candle wax. She hopes Bilbo will like it.

\--

The fog descends slowly through the trees over the course of the day Thorin spends walking back to the bay. When she reaches the spot where she will pitch her tent it’s impossible to see more than twenty yards in any direction. It’s not a problem. She knows this place. Tomorrow, if the cloud lifts, there will be water before her and familiar mountains at her back, and perhaps Bilbo too, if she is very lucky.

Thorin sets up camp confidently, lighting her fire and unwrapping the little tin box of stew that Dís insisted she take for reheating. It’s a good deal better than plain beans, and since there’s no-one to see, it doesn’t matter if she licks the scraps from the metal. She can’t stop herself from smiling. Her family is everything to Thorin, but it’s nice to have a little time away from them all the same, especially after months in the camp.

The next day she catches herself whistling as she walks out to fish. The fog hasn’t lifted, but it can’t dampen her spirits. Probably no-one has been near here since she left, and the crisp snow lies deep on the ice by the shoreline, criss-crossed with the delicate footprints of birds. The crust of it has melted and re-frozen a few times by now, so her boots sink through the thin, glassy top layer deep into fluffy powder below. She falls silent, carefully judging where the ice will be thick enough to bear her weight and far enough out for a good catch. Of course, that means she can also hear the honking of seals, and she sets up her stool and pulls out her ice chisel with a quiet chuckle.

The seals are out of the water by the time the fishing-hole is done, she notes, her heartbeat quickening at the sight. They cluster together, some apparently watching her, and it isn’t long before a few approach. Several small groups slide over towards her, scooting forward hesitantly, stopping and starting and whickering to one another, brushing whiskers, as if speaking a secret language.

Once they’re no more than twenty feet away, Thorin stands up. 

“Bilbo?” she asks hopefully. One of the seals, a fat brown one near the middle that Thorin could swear seems familiar, lifts its head and honks mournfully, but it doesn’t come any closer.

Thorin takes a step forward, and the seals shift backwards at once in a flurry of anxious movement. “Bilbo?” she calls again, and is met with silence. Every seal present regards her with round, black, unreadable eyes.

“Are you selkies?” she asks, feeling heat climb into her face at the absurdity of the question. “My name is Thorin. I’m looking for Bilbo. Is she here?”

There’s no response bar a few twitched whiskers, and Thorin feels foolish. She retreats to her stool and sits down, waiting to see what will happen and unwilling to humiliate herself further.

The largest seal, a grey one with a mottled snout, snorts loudly and turns away, scraping its way over the ice without a backward glance. Before long, the rest follow, until only the brown seal and two others that bracket it are left. The brown seal huffs, and then the three of them slowly maneuver their lumpen bodies around before hauling themselves off too. Soon the only evidence they were there is the sound of splashing and low calls from beyond the white wall of fog.

Perhaps those ones were just seals, after all.

Thorin takes out her hook and rod, casts her line, and starts to fish. The episode has troubled her and the weight of the clouds seems heavier than it was a moment ago. The air is chilled and soggy, and Thorin’s skin is clammy beneath her clothes. It is not a pleasant day to be out.

The fish seem to agree. She catches a grand total of four in the hours before the white haze around her begins to darken, turning blue-grey with the sun’s descent. Thorin packs up, heading back to her tent on the shore. She guts and hangs her paltry catch on lines to start drying, although there’s little hope of that in weather this damp.

One of them she saves to fry over her campfire, though the wood takes a deal of a time to get started and it’s hissing wet, spitting sparks onto the oilcloth sheet she sits on and once burning a small hole. It would irritate her less if Spring weren’t still so far away. Being damp and freezing cold both at once makes Thorin feel as if the Universe is settling some obscure vendetta against her. She eats, scrubs out her pan with snow, and goes to sleep, telling herself that it has only been one day so far. Perhaps tomorrow the weather will lift, and Bilbo will appear, and the fish will start biting.

The next day, the scene repeats itself, and the next. The fog will not lift and the seals will not speak, and Thorin catches fish and frets and gets an ache in her shoulders with frustrated tension, which makes her head hurt, and then she smokes too much and lies down for bed with her heart racing, unable to sleep. The forlorn cries of the seal colony echo through the mist all night long, it seems. Thorin hears them in her dreams.

On the fourth day, the seals are still there, still watching her, with no evidence that any of them may be Selkies. They still approach her in the morning, though she hasn’t spoken to them since the second day, and they linger a shorter while each time. Thorin is beginning to wonder if Dwalin was right, and she dreamed the whole thing. It feels as if she is in a dream now, surrounded by blurry emptiness in every direction, with landmarks and solid ground only appearing as she approaches, and disappearing behind her as she leaves.

She hangs another few halibut on lines that evening, and reaches to feel the ones she hung that first night. They’ve barely started to stiffen, and the birds have found them whilst she was out on the lake and could not keep watch. Several strips have been stolen entirely and others have chunks pecked out, leaving them only fit to feed Dwalin’s dogs. She could stay longer, and catch more, but there’s less room in her pack this time because of the extra clothes she brought, and her heart isn’t in it. The whole trip feels like it’s a waste of her time. There seems little point prolonging it. 

She turns back to the darkness of the bay, and raises her voice. “Bilbo! If you can hear me, I only want to see you. Please come back.” The weight of sorrow and frustration in her belly is more than enough to overcome any embarrassment now. “I have to go back home. If you are out there, Bilbo, I am leaving tomorrow. Please, just let me see you.”

On her lips is another “please”, a million more of them, but Thorin won’t let herself beg. 

Clenching her fists, she listens to her voice echoing off the tall mountains and icy lake that she cannot see through the mist. The echoes die away unheeded, and she crawls back into her tent and her sleeping-sack. Perhaps it’s her imagination, but she thinks the seal colony is making more noise than usual. They may just have been disturbed by her shouting. In any case, Thorin will need a good night’s sleep if she’s to leave in the morning. 

\--

When she wakes, the world is eerily silent. The seals have gone, it seems. The fog has finally lifted, though just enough to show the bleak, empty shoreline reaching well past where the colony usually sat.

Thorin packs up her things, unhooking the partly-dried fish from the lines and stacking them up in the oilskin bag, tying her pan back onto the straps, and stuffing the last of her handkerchiefs into the pocket of her pants. The little shell Bilbo gave her is in there, too. If it was Bilbo who gave it to her. It’s hard to believe any of that happened, now. 

The next job is to start taking the tent down, but Thorin pauses, her fingers twitching against the shell, and suddenly she can’t bear it any longer. A lesson has been learned: her lot is to work hard, take care of her family, and be alone, not to chase the spontaneous whims of her heart. She won’t let this foolishness hold onto her any longer.

Striding forwards, she reaches the edge of the shingle where the crunch of stones under the snow gives way to the smoothness of ice and beyond, heading towards the fishing hole and past it. She walks until she can hear the ice creaking under her feet and knows the open water is close enough. Then she lifts her arm and flings the shell into the sea, as far as she can.

It sails through the air in a long, high arc before disappearing forever with a tiny splash, and Thorin stares, numb, at the place where it fell.

A moment later she swears out loud in shock. There is something in the water, bobbing up and down on the surface and approaching rapidly. Within seconds it is clear that the thing is a seal. The beast lands upon the ice, rears up on its flippers, and then keeps rising impossibly upwards, the dark brown shining skin splitting down the middle and a rosy pink figure emerging as if from a chrysalis. 

It’s Bilbo: beautiful, bare, and beaming so widely it’s like dawn breaking through the clouds. She snatches up the sealskin that lies discarded at her feet and runs to fling her arms about Thorin and squeeze her with surprising strength. 

“I can’t believe how stupid you are!” she says, laughing. “Why on earth didn’t you summon me sooner?”

“I...” begins Thorin in confusion. In her defence, it’s a lot harder to think clearly when her arms are unexpectedly full of Bilbo’s glorious nakedness, and her face is being peppered with kisses. “I had to summon you?”

“Yes! I got in horrible trouble last time, I couldn’t just come to you! They made me promise to wait until you called me. I’ve been watching you for days, waiting and waiting for you to understand.”

Bilbo is real, a being of solid flesh in Thorin’s arms, though there are goosebumps forming on her skin already and she’s shivering. All Thorin can think of is carrying her back to that tent and warming her again, perhaps even the way they did last time. It’s such a bewitching thought that she scoops Bilbo up before even thinking to ask permission. Not that there seems to be any objection, since Bilbo is laughing still, rubbing her face against the furred collar of Thorin’s coat, stroking her free hand over Thorin’s hair and pressing little kisses to her throat and jaw.

“Goodness, I forget how freezing it is without my skin,” says Bilbo. “I hope there’s a fire in your tent!”

“There will be,” promises Thorin, walking as fast as she can without slipping.

Once they reach the shore Bilbo jumps down, diving inside the tent and hunkering down beside the fire-circle, arms wrapped about herself as she looks up expectantly. Crouched down like that she is all folds and curves, a bountiful abundance of flesh that Thorin longs to touch and stroke. Instead she peels off her coat and drops it over Bilbo, squatting next to her, and gets on with arranging a fire, layering the kindling sticks with shaking hands. 

“I brought clothes for you, if you’re cold,” says Thorin. Bilbo’s face lights up.

“Can I see? I’ve never worn clothes!”

Thorin indicates her bag, so recently repacked, and Bilbo pulls out the nightgown, pants, shirt, and sweater. She exclaims over them, cooing with pleasure at the different colours and textures of fabric. The nightgown she dismisses at once, announcing she wishes to look proper, the way Thorin does. Chuckling to herself, Thorin cannot find it in her to explain that “proper” is the last thing she is. 

Bilbo pulls on the shirt, arms over her head, and for a moment while her face is hidden Thorin dares to peep at her, the wispy fluff at her armpits, the wide pink nipples on her small, high breasts and the crease where they lie against her body. Thorin thinks of how those breasts might fit into her own large hands, and how smooth and full they might feel. Bilbo is the loveliest thing that Thorin has ever seen, even better than the fragments of memory Thorin has held onto through the winter. 

Apparently unaware that she is being watched, Bilbo reaches for the pants. They fall below her knees almost to her calves, although they fit well around the waist and strain a little over her generous buttocks. She looks down at herself, running her hands over the clothes from her shoulders down to her thighs with evident satisfaction. Under the shirt and the pressure of the suspenders against it, the soft peaks of her nipples are outlined in the pale linen. Thorin recalls how they felt under her fingers, that last time, and shakes her head, forcing herself to pay attention to the fire.

Bilbo reaches her arm into the pack again, searching to see if there is more, and her expression shifts from excitement to surprise. She draws out the carved seal, and looks at it in wonderment, turning it over and over in her dainty hands.

“What’s this?” she asks.

“A gift, for you,” says Thorin, hoping she does not sound too gruff. “A token of friendship.”

Bilbo’s eyes are wide and shining as she turns to meet Thorin’s gaze. “Did you make it? For me?”

The fire is lit, though it still needs some attention, and Thorin feeds it with sticks and blows the embers to brightness. She can feel the blush creeping up her neck. She nods.

“I love it,” breathes Bilbo. She comes to kneel at Thorin’s side, reaching up to turn Thorin’s face towards her own, and the look on her face is at once worshipful and amused. “Thank you.”

With a tenderness Thorin has never known before, Bilbo kisses her. Her mouth is soft but unyeilding, pressing against Thorin’s insistently, and Thorin feels a warmth that starts not from the fire outside her, but the one inside, the one lit by Bilbo that is the best thing she’s ever known. She feels Bilbo’s lips part, and follows suit, a little startled at the feel of someone else’s tongue in her mouth, but it’s good, it feels right. Clumsily, she attempts to copy Bilbo’s movements, wanting more, and wanting never to stop. There’s a heat rising under her skin, a tension in her gut and between her legs that feels like a hunger.

Bilbo draws back a little and reaches behind her. In her hand is the sealskin, and she holds it out to Thorin. “Here’s my gift, to you.”

Thorin reaches out on instinct, then stops. Bilbo’s mouth is pink and wet with kissing, her eyes shining, but there’s something resigned to her expression, almost melancholy. 

“It is yours,” says Thorin hesitantly. “You need it, to change yourself.”

“That’s right,” says Bilbo softly, nodding. “You keep it, lock it up somewhere safe, so I can’t run back home.” 

“I will not.” Thorin pushes the skin away and shakes her head. It’s simple honesty, but the words seem to strike Bilbo like some physical blow. She stares, her mouth working for a moment before she finds words. 

“Why not?”

“I don’t want it,” says Thorin, aware even as she speaks that the words are wrong. Explaining herself has never been Thorin’s strong suit. 

“You don’t want it… oh. You don’t want me?” asks Bilbo, distress clear on her face. She shuffles away from Thorin, holding the skin tightly against herself like a shield. “I thought… but why did you come back? Why did you throw the shell?”

“I want you,” says Thorin at once, leaning forward. She didn’t expect to be able to say that, but it’s out there now, easier than expected. She blinks, frowning, determined to express the thing properly. “I do not want your skin. I would not keep you a prisoner, Bilbo. I want you, to love, to adore, but only if you want me. It must be your choice, as it is mine.” 

Reaching over, Thorin dares to take Bilbo’s small hand in her own, and lifts it to lay a kiss upon the soft, uncalloused palm. Half-a-dozen emotions seem to twitch across Bilbo’s face in rapid succession, and her gaze wanders, a little furrow between her eyebrows as she considers. The tent is getting warmer now, the fire a merry crackling thing beside them. 

“I could chose that,” says Bilbo softly at last. “I think I could choose that.”

Thorin leans very slowly forward to kiss her. She has never tried to kiss a woman before, but Bilbo tilts her chin to meet Thorin’s lips eagerly. She wraps her arms around Thorin’s neck, clambering back into her lap. The linen of Bilbo’s new shirt is thin, and beneath it her skin radiates warmth. 

The kisses grow deeper, Bilbo pushing forwards as if seeking a treat she has long been denied, and Thorin follows suit gladly, grateful that Bilbo seems to know a little more about how these things are done. The newly-donned clothes are rapidly removed again, along with Thorin’s, and she lays reverent hands over Bilbo’s breasts at last, finding they fit under her palms perfectly. Bilbo arches into the touch and sighs, giggling, then reaches to give one of Thorin’s nipples a firm pinch of her own. Before Thorin can object, Bilbo has ducked down, her tongue flicking out to soothe the hurt, and Thorin is gasping, unable to do other than surrender utterly as Bilbo presses her back against the ground, caressing her all over with hands that move slowly lower and lower. 

The whole world seems to shrink to the deft movement of Bilbo’s small fingers and inquisitive mouth, exploring her skin and drawing sensations from Thorin as no-one ever has before. There are coaxing encouragements murmured all the while between kisses, skillfully building Thorin’s desire until she is trembling, groaning aloud, coming apart utterly under Bilbo’s hands as pure bliss courses through her. It takes a while to come back to herself after that. When she does, she finds Bilbo regarding her with such tenderness, Thorin resolves it is time for her turn. 

Though Thorin is only a beginner, she is a keen student, with a most excellent teacher and subject. She has never known such a miracle as Bilbo’s body, kissing her way over the sweet expanse of stomach and breasts just as she has dreamed of doing all Winter long. Nor has she ever seen such a wonder as Bilbo undone with pleasure, her thighs thrown wide, digging her hands into Thorin’s hair and wailing her name as she comes. 

In the drowsy moments afterwards, there are cosy blankets and gentle embraces. Thorin tells Bilbo of her home, and the cabin she will fix up for them both. She promises to teach Bilbo how to shoot, and cook, and sew, and trap beaver if she wants to. Bilbo pokes at Thorin’s muscles, and pets her hair, and makes her laugh harder than she can remember. Then there are more kisses and revelations of pleasure: the sounds Bilbo makes when Thorin kisses her ears, and the silken salt taste of her on Thorin’s tongue.

Most of the day is passed in such discoveries, and Thorin has never known such happiness in all her life. 

There’s a fear in her heart too, at the thought she might have kept returning to this bay alone, pining for Bilbo, holding that little shell in her hand as a memento and never knowing it was the key to this happiness. How easily they might have been parted, and lived alone, grieving for each other.

\--

But that is not what happened. 

The journey home is a slow one, since Thorin brought no spare shoes, but they make it back in less than a day nonetheless. If Bilbo’s feet are sore, she does not complain about it, although she is less charitable about the slow going. Swimming is much faster, as she reminds Thorin several times.

When the reach the camp at last, Bilbo is immediately delighted by it and the cabins, and says so, often enough to make Dís blush and Balin chuckle. The boys love her instantly, and even Dwalin warms up, in time. It helps that she rapidly becomes a remarkable shot, bagging twice as much game as Thorin ever has. Dís teaches her to cook and declares her a prodigy, and the kitchen garden begins to flourish as it never has before.

Two more of the old ruined cabins on the site had been fixed up already, in case Fili or Kili ever brought home a wife, but now Bilbo and Thorin take the one nearest the vegetable garden. The sealskin is kept on a shelf above the head of their new bed, safe but not locked away.

Bilbo grows flowers and makes wild berry jam and Thorin embroiders their curtains and linens with the fancy stitches she learned as a child. She sews new nightgowns for them both that are almost never worn, addicted as they both seem to be to each other’s bare skin, and most nights they sleep wrapped up in one another, pressed close at every possible point.

Sometimes Thorin wakes to find the cabin empty, the sealskin gone, and a carved wooden seal left on the pillow beside hers. On those days she takes her time packing up suitable supplies, waits for the dawn, and makes her own way down to the side of the bay. 

She sets up the tent, lights a fire, maybe catches some fish, and waits contentedly for Bilbo to come back to her.

And Bilbo always does.


End file.
